An honest review of Heeramandi

A postmortem of the long-awaited series

There was something that I had forgotten about Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s work: it is never the story that works. 

Hear me out. This isn’t a black or white, reel friendly opinion. Nor is it me trying to troll Sharmeen Segal’s acting prowess or lack thereof. It is an attempt at actual criticism on the internet. 

Heeramandi follows the story of the tawaifs of Heera Mandi, a real-life bazaar of entertainment located in Lahore. It chronicles the lives of a group of performers whose home is the reputed Shahi Mahal. When the British arrive and establish their political alliances with the nawabs of Lahore, the business of Heeramandi begins to crumble. Meanwhile, the revolution for Indian independence is in full-swing. The lives of these tawaifs are caught helplessly in between. 

The potential for this story was massive. Really, massive. The series spans across almost 20 years, from the 1920s to 1947. It is told through eight 45-50 minute episodes of pure opulence. That is what is communicated clearly from the very first shot to the last shot; this story is that of riches. The clothes are phenomenal, the jewellery is exquisite, the set design is really something to marvel at and so are the compositions of the shots. I expect nothing less from Mr. Bhansali. But the story is difficult to watch. 

The first episode opens with a young Mallikajaan, played by the inimitable Manisha Koirala, asleep on a chaise lounge with her newborn child. Her sister and head of Shahi Mahal, Rehana Begum, played by Sonakshi Sinha, comes in at midnight and steals her younger sister’s newborn child. This is the inciting incident that sets off generations of trauma within the walls of Heeramandi. The first episode sets the tone for what is about to follow: a series of scenes crafted to showcase one exceptional shot and not for the story. I know it sounds harsh, but that is what I noticed. It is not that the story is difficult to follow, it is that the scenes that tell the story, most often than not, don’t have a logical reasoning. This was my feeling for the first 4 episodes of the series; a lot of exposition, followed by more exposition, followed by more exposition with little to connect them to the larger story. And even though we have had almost 4 episodes of exposition, somehow, new pieces of information sneak into the storyline even in the last episode. You sit there thinking “oh I didn’t know Lajjo aapa, who I have been watching from episode 1, had an opium addiction,” or “oh, Phatto, who is one of the main supporting characters in the series, her full name is in fact Fatima and not Phatto,” which by the way you find out only in episode 8. 

The pacing of the series feels rushed; big story arcs which need an equally big buildup are given one scene, characters arcs are given a few moments to change course and let’s stay away from talking about how quickly our two “main leads,” Tajdar and Alamzeb, fall in love with each other; in true Hindi movie fashion, it is with one look, yes. The shots are without a doubt absolutely stunning, but the story held me more when the shots weren’t actually as beautiful. 

Not to be a purist but a series about skilled performers and dancers really needed some skilled performers and dancers. What the camera was able to achieve while shooting the dance sequences, the performers brought down with their dancing. Had the series not been about tawaifs this point would not have mattered, but since we are talking about women who have legendary performance history, the training makes a difference. 

I’ll be honest, the idiosyncrasies of the time, I fell in love with; the language, the adab or politeness, the salam upon greeting someone, bidding adieu with “allah hafiz,'' they were all world building techniques that definitely succeeded in establishing a mood. Whether they were historically accurate or not is besides the point in my opinion. While watching you could smell the roses that Mallikajaan stuffed into her blouse so that she stayed perfumed for the entire day or the attar that Lajjo sprays before she leaves the house. The little dots of mehendi on their hands were stunning details that the show needed. But while it succeeded in making sure I would like to smell, see and hear Heeramandi, it didn’t convince me that I needed to watch the show for it. 

It's difficult handling a period piece like this that is told through only 8 episodes. The world, the time, the kind of mood Bhansali wanted to capture, and constantly wants to capture, is unfortunately not mini-series friendly. However, I think the OTT series format really does suit his work. He has the luxury of going into unending detail about the things he is most obsessed with; beauty, beauty, beauty. Speaking of, Aditi Rao Hydari, Manisha Koirala and Taha Shah Badussha are wonderful in the series. I had forgotten how Koirala shines on screen. She gave life to an on-paper simply cruel and vindictive Mallikajaan. Hydari as the silently brave Bibbojaan is made for period films, her genes made her that way and what a delight Badussha is as the principled Tajdar on screen. 

Would I want to watch Heeramandi again? Not really. Do I now want to smell of rose perfume though? Definitely.